Remaindered
by lizw65
Summary: Before Peter crosses to the AU, he seeks out an old acquaintance.
1. Chapter 1

REMAINDERED chap. 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own nor am I affiliated with _Fringe_ or any other work herein referenced. This story takes place shortly after episode 7 Season 4._

One of the prerequisites of a good con is the establishment of trust. Persuading your mark to disregard that tiny, nagging, interior voice telling them to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction while simultaneously relieving them of their life savings, their self-respect, and their pants is what distinguishes a master con artist from the legions of amateurs, the one percent from the ninety-nine.

Peter Bishop was a proud member of the one percent.

His latest mark, however, was proving to be more of a challenge than he'd anticipated. FBI Agent Timothy Joseph Rawlins had so far resisted all his attempts to be charming, offers of home-cooked dinners and nights on the town, content instead to stand at rigid attention just outside the front door, all senses on high alert for any sight, sound, or suggestion that he, Peter, was anything other than a good, obedient little prisoner.

And a prisoner he was, though he had to admit the cage was a gilded one. The house in which he was for all intents and purposes incarcerated was the same one he and his father, Walter, had inhabited for over two years, a rental secured for them by the FBI and Fringe Division. In this new world into which Peter found himself abruptly thrust, not unlike a huge middle finger mocking the whole universe—and wasn't _that_ an apt metaphor, he thought—Walter _owned_ the house, and had done so for some years. Not that Dr. Bishop himself cared about the place, living as a paranoid, obsessive-compulsive semi-recluse in the confines of his old lab at Harvard. Grieved and sickened as Peter might be that the man he considered his father was reduced to such a state, he couldn't allow himself to dwell on it, to become involved. It wasn't _his_ Walter, after all. Not his Walter, not his Olivia, not his world. He _had_ to believe that, or the fragile control he had on his emotions and sanity just might snap; he had to believe he'd somehow landed in the wrong timeline with the wrong people—unloved, unwanted, and forgotten, the ultimate victim of a vast cosmic joke.

Still, the house was warm, dry, and nominally his, and one of the more recent tenants had furnished it with a brand-new plasma TV and cable service. And it was infinitely better than a bare cell at Fringe headquarters, where he'd been reduced to pounding on the door if he so much as wanted to get a soda or use the toilet.

Once Peter had removed the dust covers from the furniture, cleaned the decaying remnants of the last tenant's last meal (spaghettini with white clam sauce and garlic bread) out of the kitchen sink, and made himself up a comfy bed on the pull-out sofa, he'd done a comprehensive sweep of the house for _objets d'art_ both small enough to conceal in a pocket and valuable enough to fence. He'd come upon some surprising things during his search; things that, like himself, should not have been there. One was a toy airplane bought for him by his "mother" a few months after his arrival in this universe. If, as Walter had insisted, he'd drowned as a child in Reiden Lake, the plane should not have been purchased. It was possible, of course, that in this timeline the plane had belonged to his counterpart before his own untimely death, but Peter had noted a small scratch on the right wing, acquired when he'd tried to make the plane fly out a second floor window of their old house. He recalled the incident clearly, just as he remembered the visit to the toy shop and the aftermath of that day; therefore, in some inexplicable way, these things, which had not happened, had happened after all.

Peter had found other things too. He found himself secreting these items well out of sight of Agent Rawlins, hoarding them together for…well, he wasn't quite sure why, except that they were a sort of comfort, a tether to his old life, an affirmation that he could, and would, return. After dark, safe from the prying eyes of the agent, he'd take them out and look at them, turning them over and over, searching for some clue, some connection, hoping for an epiphany that thus far had failed to materialize.

Then, frustrated, he turned his attention to the more immediate problem of neutralizing Timmy Baby. It was becoming clear after almost a week of house arrest that Agent Tim was neither easily duped nor bribable; that left (a) injury, (b) distraction, or (c) homicide.

Option (c), of course, was out of the question. In his old life, Peter _might_ have got away with murdering an FBI agent if he'd claimed self-defense, but there was no way this new hard-ass, untrusting Fringe team would tolerate such an action. ("You thought Tim was a _shapeshifter_? Up against the wall and spread 'em, kid…") Anyway, massive frustration aside, he didn't really dislike Timmy; he knew the man was only doing his job to the best of his myopic, unimaginative ability.

Distraction was a better idea. In the good old days before Orwellian levels of security cameras, GPS tracking, and smart phones, Peter had once cleared out an entire shopping mall in ten minutes flat with a fake bomb threat called in from a pay phone in that very mall. Before security had figured out what was going on, Peter, his then-partner in crime Nadine, and about twelve grand in small luxury items were in the next county, deep in negotiations with a trusted fence.

The problem was that any distraction big enough to drag Tim away from his post would also require him to drag Peter along with him, probably at gunpoint. No, it would have to be a combination of (a) and (b), a brief moment of inattention on Tim's part followed by swift and decisive action on his.

It would have to be brutal.

And that was where the core of Peter's plan started to break down. He wasn't sure how or when he'd developed a conscience, but somehow over the course of becoming Walter's caretaker and Olivia's partner, he'd learned to care for people other than himself, to take into consideration their thoughts and feelings as well as his own. And somewhat to his own annoyance, he found he didn't really want to hurt Timmy. The old Peter, the one of five years or a decade ago, wouldn't have hesitated at the thought of incurring collateral damage while on a job, and yet here he was, balking at maybe breaking a few ribs or the odd kneecap.

Most of his old associates would say he'd gone soft; he preferred to think he'd become more human. In any case, he knew he'd have to put his scruples aside and act fast. He'd only get one shot—a single failed attempt would send Tim into high alert, and instead of the relative not-quite-freedom of his old home Peter would go back again to solitary confinement at Fringe headquarters, handcuffs, and possibly (his imagination ran riot at this point) a diet of stale bread and water and "enhanced" interrogations involving whips, needles, and castor oil.

Maybe if Olivia was the one handling the whip…

He put _that_ thought out of his mind fast. The last thing he needed was to start thinking of this iteration of Olivia as his partner and helpmeet, his lover, his (future) wife. That was one mistake he wouldn't be making again. She'd made it clear that he was alien to her; an interesting and occasionally useful anomaly, maybe some expendable muscle, nothing more. This lack of awareness on her part disturbed him not a little whenever he allowed himself to dwell on it; the _old_ Olivia, the one he knew and loved, would have exhibited boundless curiosity at his sudden appearance. _She_ wouldn't dismiss him with a few casual words and a glance; she'd investigate him thoroughly, never resting till she uncovered the truth about the stranger haunting her dreams and Walter's lab. Something was wrong, his hindbrain told him; something was rotten in the state of Massachusetts. Peter shoved the nagging inner voice resolutely away, willing it to silence. Soon, if all went according to plan, he could put this world, these cold strangers with familiar and beloved faces, behind him forever.

The toaster oven dinged, and Peter left off his depressing thoughts to smear a bagel with cream cheese and add a few slices of lox before biting into the whole with a sigh that was almost orgasmic. During their last shopping trip, Agent Tim had looked askance at this evidence of wanton extravagance in his prisoner. He'd also had several words to say about the purchase of a package of chicken thighs, half a pound of bacon, a bag of potatoes, and a small flask of Jack Daniels. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, Peter ought to be living on ramen noodles and Kraft mac 'n' cheese, and by God, liking it.

He'd gone so far as to actually try to remove the bacon from Peter's shopping cart before learning quite quickly that anyone who valued his own skin—even a trained Federal agent packing heat—didn't get between a Bishop and a good meal.

Peter grinned to himself at the memory. A victory was still a victory, however small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He finished off his bagel in two bites and glanced at the clock above the kitchen stove. Six AM. In exactly half an hour Tim's shift would end and he'd be replaced with Agent Suzanne Briscoe, a dour, hard-faced woman of fifty even more impervious than Tim to Peter's charms. Soon Peter's small window of opportunity would end and he'd have to wait another whole twenty-four hours to try again. He set down his coffee mug, tore himself away from contemplation of the blueprint of the Vacuum Machine he'd been studying, and padded silently into the front hall. Through the leaded glass surrounding the door he could clearly see the figure of Agent Tim—who, he observed, had for once abandoned his pose of self-important vigilance and was instead lounging against one of the support columns of the porch. His back was turned away from Peter, his attitude one of relaxed indifference, the bulk of his attention focused on the pages of a _hentai_ manga which, Peter noted, he was reading from left to right.

This, at last, could be the chance Peter had been waiting for. The latch was raised, the opening of the door timed to coincide with a passing truck whose air brakes effectively masked any sound. Several pulse-pounding moments went by when it seemed as if Tim was about to sense his prisoner's approach and turn around, but no; the agent's eyes remained fixed on his book. Peter took an instant to compose himself; to steady his breathing, to ready himself physically and mentally for the act of rendering unconscious the man who recently—and in a context quite the opposite of a true emotional bond—had asked Peter to think of him as a friend.

Peter took a deep breath and slid a hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the makeshift weighted blackjack he had concealed there.

"Say hello to _my_ little friend_._"


	2. Chapter 2

At precisely seven-thirty that morning, Edward Markham locked the door to his tiny, dingy bachelor apartment in the heart of Cambridge and descended a rickety spiral staircase to the bookshop that had been his real home, his life, for nearly twenty years. The morning was cold and overcast, with a damp chill in the air that threatened snow later on. Markham's breath frosted as he blew on his hands in their fingerless woolen gloves and rubbed them briskly together to try and warm them. His knuckles, stiff with cold and arthritis, cracked as he lit a match under the gas ring and filled the coffee pot with fresh grounds and water.

Some mornings, he didn't know why he bothered to get out of bed.

Business was bad and getting worse. With the economy in the toilet and no plunger in sight, fewer people than ever were buying books; Markham wasn't even sure that most people read any more. Kids today spent all their time texting or playing online games; e-books were starting to supplant ink and paper; hell, even newspapers were practically obsolete. It was enough to make your friendly neighborhood bookseller weep, not that Markham was noticeably friendly even to those few individuals he considered friends.

He opened a can of Elegant Tuna Surprise for the shop kitten, an orange-and-white ball of fluff who'd showed up several weeks ago, and gave her a few minutes petting before turning his attention to the ancient wood stove that provided the shop's only heat. The stove had gone out some time in the night and was stone cold to his touch. Markham took his time coaxing the elderly, cantankerous beast into life, feeding it handfuls of sawdust for kindling along with several pages ripped from a circa 1980's Harlequin romance. At last, his efforts were rewarded with a faint warmth that began to spread slowly outward, gaining in strength and intensity till it warmed his bones and eased the pain in his finger joints. Markham left the stove and rewarded himself with the day's first cup of coffee, now perking away merrily in the pot.

A faint rustling noise, startling in the early morning quiet of the shop, made him turn his head, ears straining to catch the source. There it was again, like the sound of dry leaves being blown about in the wind. It seemed to be moving, making its gradual way from one end of the shop to the other. Markham froze, unsure whether the noise was real or in his head.

Being alone wasn't a bad way to live, but it had its downside, too, especially at the times when you couldn't tell where imagination left off and reality began. And that went double for someone like Markham, who spent all his time among books. Books were…special. They had a way of warping reality and belief over time, changing it in subtle ways you often didn't notice until it was too late. They sent you into other times, other places, other universes. Made you believe you were someone else, for a while, anyway. And when you got a lot of them together in one place…

Sometimes, late at night, when he couldn't sleep, Markham heard the books whispering to him and to each other: the deep, sonorous drone of history textbooks contrasting with the light drawing room chatter of Regency romances and the streetwise growl of detective stories. Hundreds, thousands of characters, each with their own story to tell, all convinced they were the hero or heroine of their own narrative. It was a strange half-life they led, trapped forever between the pages of their books: prisoners who didn't know they were prisoners, performing the same actions in endless cycles of murders and marriages, love affairs and deceptions, gritty urban fantasies and multigenerational family sagas, trapped inside stories that never changed.

Except when they did.

Jasper fforde got it wrong, Markham thought. You didn't just wake up one morning to find whole passages edited out of the works of the Marquis de Sade, for example, or discover that Hamlet had survived the last act and was now sharing a little studio apartment in Greenwich Village with Horatio. It was subtler than that. More insidious. Most of the time it was nothing more than a word changed here and there; an extra comma, a missing semicolon—something that could be dismissed as a typo, if it even got noticed at all.

Over time, though, these things added up. Markham noticed, because he noticed most things bookish, and because he was one of those people who pay attention to the delicate signals the universe sends out when the order of things has changed, when the patterns of the cosmos have shifted in tiny but significant ways. And just as books changed reality, reality appeared to be changing the books, more so in recent weeks than ever before, and not for the better. It was enough to worry even Markham, who took a cynical, fatalistic, "we're all screwed" approach to the world at the best of times. Especially since the word "not" had inexplicably reappeared in the Seventh Commandment in his fantastically rare and valuable copy of the so-called _Wicked Bible_, rendering it not at all wicked and completely unsellable.

And there was the little matter of what was happening to Joyce's _Ulysses_…

Something was going on. Markham knew it, and he was damned if he knew how to stop it, or even if he ought to try. He could feel it—in his bones, his blood, and especially in the books themselves. He cast a nervous glance over the rows of shelves. They were quiet for now, watchful, insofar as inanimate objects can be said to watch. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting for something or someone; holding, for want of a better word, their breath.

He jumped when a knock sounded at the door, then relaxed when he saw it was only Jill Moss, a Harvard grad student who brought him pastries every morning from the bakery where she worked in exchange for the expensive textbooks she needed to complete her degree. It was a good arrangement, of the mutually beneficial sort that was as close to friendship as Markham allowed himself with most people. He unbolted the door just far enough to collect the pink cardboard box from the stoop as Jill sped away on her moped, and stayed standing for a moment in the icy morning air, savoring the contrast between it and the scent of warm, fresh croissants and _babas au rhum_.

A man stood on the edge of the sidewalk, perfectly still, looking up at his shop. Markham stiffened in automatic outrage—someone casing the joint? At this hour of the morning? The guy was tallish and in the prime of life. He had on a dark three-piece suit and fedora of the kind Markham remembered his own father wearing to work back in the Sixties, and held a briefcase and some kind of fancy cell phone. Underneath the hat he appeared completely bald; Markham, peering closer, got a shock—the guy really _was_ completely bald. He had, as far as the bookseller could see, no eyebrows, eyelashes, or indeed facial hair of any kind. _Weird_. Cancer patient, maybe, but that didn't give him a free pass to loiter as far as Markham was concerned.

"Hey, buddy, you wanna move along there?"

The man cocked his head to one side; an odd, birdlike movement.

"I beg your pardon, Edward Markham." His voice was weird, too—precise and unemotional, with a strange, sing-song cadence that made Markham think English might not be his first language. "You will receive a visitor soon."

"Yeah, well, you're gonna receive a visit from my Louisville Slugger if you don't take a hike." Markham spoke with a bravado he didn't feel. There was something deeply unsettling about the guy, something that disturbed him on a very basic, primal level. It made his skin prickle and the little hairs stand up on the back of his neck, even as his hindbrain told him to retreat back into his shop and lock the door.

"Please tell Peter Bishop that they have arrived."

"What? Who? Tell him yourself-" Markham began, and then a bicycle messenger breezed past, blocking his view. When he looked up again, the man was gone.

Shaking his head in bafflement, Markham stepped back into his shop and bolted the door. The brief encounter had shaken him, but it was nothing a good breakfast wouldn't cure. He set the bakery box down on the counter and opened it, mouth watering in anticipation. Then, just as he was about to bite into a croissant, he heard it again—the same rustling sound as before. Markham froze, pastry halfway to his mouth. Was it louder now? It, or something, had woken the kitten from her post-breakfast nap on a pile of books; she wobbled to her feet and arched her back, hissing, fur fluffed out to almost twice her size.

"What is it, sweetheart? A rat?" Markham's voice sounded loud, too loud in the silent shop. He followed the kitten's gaze but didn't see anything. "Old building like this, the bastards get in everywhere. They're bigger than you. Better leave this one to me."

Abandoning thoughts of breakfast for the moment, Markham reached behind the counter and pulled out his trusty baseball bat. It had been a .38 special until that unfortunate business with the Archbishop and the wombat some years ago cost him his license. He was conscious of a hazy certainty that a third individual had played a significant role in that little drama, but he couldn't for the life of him recall who it was or why he should think that. Anyway, it didn't matter now. Swinging the bat up onto one shoulder, he advanced on silent feet in the direction of the sound.

Which stopped almost immediately, leaving Markham wondering yet again if he was imagining things. The fact that the kitten still looked agitated argued in favor of his not being crazy. Markham stood quite still for several minutes, bat at the ready, but all was silence in the bookstore. Then, just as he'd unslung the bat from his shoulder and relaxed, something rushed by in a whisper of autumn leaves. Markham caught a brief glimpse of several long, thin, whiplike forms, transparent—he could see right through them—and moving at incredible speed. He thought he saw wedge-shaped, eyeless heads and mouths filled with needlelike teeth that bared in a snarl as they passed by him, and then, just as suddenly, they were gone.

Markham shook.

He stayed where he was for what felt like a long time, until his breathing and heart rate resumed normal levels. Now that whatever-they-were had gone, he was conscious of a curious effect: the rational part of his mind went into immediate denial that any of it had happened. Some part of his brain didn't want to believe what his eyes and ears told him was real, and for a man who spent the better part of his nights listening to books talk to him, this was a new and unfamiliar sensation. Even the kitten, now that the danger had passed, sat daintily licking at one paw, her whole attitude one of seeming unconcern.

"They were real," Markham said aloud, as much to hear a human voice as to convince himself of the fact. "They were real, but now they're gone. Sooner or later, they'll be back, and then I'll be ready. We'll be ready," he added to the kitten, who spared him a glance, saw that he didn't have any food on him, and went back to washing herself.

The old clock on the wall behind the counter struck a single, sonorous note. It was eight-thirty. Opening time, not that Markham had much expectation of droves of customers fighting to get in at this or any other time of day. That was just how it'd been lately. Oh, he still got the occasional student looking for a good deal on a used textbook or an adolescent girl in search of a _Vampire Academy _fix, but the old days of crowds packed in like sardines, elbowing each other in their eagerness to get to the shelves and talking Literature in excited voices were gone. Probably for good. Sighing, he stowed his bat away behind the counter on its shelf, flicked on the radio (tuned, as always, to a soothing classical station, conducive to heightened brain function) and munching a now-cool croissant, went to unlock the door.

The bell jangled, and in walked Trouble, with a capital T.

Over the years, Markham had sometimes had occasion to deal with local toughs: mostly surly, black-leather-clad youths bristling with spikes and chains, who practically had DON'T FUCK WITH ME written in flashing neon over their heads, and strutted around harassing local merchants and intimidating their customers for the sheer fun of it until somebody called the cops.

This guy didn't need neon.

He didn't fit the type, either. Thirtyish, slight, and unassuming, he wore an FBI jacket that was too short in the sleeves and too big everywhere else over an assortment of clothes that looked like they came from the discount rack at the overstock warehouse. He carried a disposable cup of coffee and a brown paper bag that from the size and shape of it, held several hardcover books, and his grin was at once cocky and completely untrustworthy. If this guy was FBI, thought the bookseller, than he, Markham, was Mickey Mouse.

"Hey, Markham," said Trouble.

The shopkeeper bristled. "How do you know who I am?"

The guy's grin widened. "Let's just say I'm a mysteriously omniscient, currently non-existent—yet corporeal—displaced inter-dimensional time traveller with extensive knowledge of infinite futures, multiple pasts, and a singular present from a parallel reality. I'm older than I look, younger than I feel, and I barely remember my childhood. And like Dorothy, I just want to get home. Oh, and I read your name on the sign above the door."

Markham sifted through the hodgepodge of meandering pseudo-philosophical bullshit and cut straight to the heart of the matter as he saw it. "No way you're a Fed."

"No?" The guy appeared to consider it. "I have the gun and badge to prove it." He put down his coffee, reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a laminated ID card, which he held out to Markham. "Special Agent Timothy Rawlins, age forty-two, five foot ten, black hair, brown eyes…what?" He frowned in mock confusion. "You don't think that looks like me?"

"What'd you do, kill some poor bastard and steal his identity?"

"I don't like killing people if I can avoid it. It's messy, and it attracts the wrong kind of attention. Okay, look." He sighed, setting down his parcel on the countertop and facing Markham squarely. "My real name's Peter Bishop. You probably don't remember me—in fact, I'm certain you don't—but we first met when you bought some books from me about a dozen years ago."

"Listen, sonny, I been in this business eighteen years and I remember every book that's come through the joint. None of which I bought from you." Figures, Markham thought. Peter Bishop. My first customer today, and he's a friend of that bald creep who was hanging around.

"Let's see if I can refresh your memory." The young man leaned against the counter and began to tick titles off on his fingers. "_Also Sprach Zarathustra_. Autographed copy of _Mein Kampf_, required reading for all good little members of the National Socialist Party. _Die Lieden Des Jungen Werther_. First edition of Felix Salten's _Josephine_—published anonymously, of course-" he broke off as Markham's expression changed from bafflement to leering recognition.

"Now, _that_ one I remember."

'Hard to forget," agreed his visitor.

"But I sure as hell didn't buy it—any of 'em—from you. Bishop. If that's really your name. Any relation to that whack job who offed all those people at that college?" Markham let a deliberately insulting note creep into his voice.

"Different whack job." The guy shrugged, unoffended. "Look them up in your ledger." He gestured to a row of identical large, leather-bound books that dominated the shelf above the counter. "October 1999, I think it was."

He watched with interest as the diminutive bookseller located a wheeled stepladder and wrestled the volume—which was almost as big as he was—down from the shelf and onto the countertop. Markham pulled on a pair of half-moon spectacles and began thumbing through the stiff, crackling pages, his face set with concentration.

"You know, it'd be a lot easier if you put all that on a laptop. I could do it for you in an evening, if you like. Save you all kinds of space."

"Computers crash, Bishop." Markham didn't look up from his task. "They get hacked by punk-ass kids with too much time on their hands and axes to grind. They're obsolete before they hit the shelves at Best Buy. Ink and paper, that's the ticket." He smacked the page for emphasis. "You can always depend on ink and paper. They'll never let you down….ahh, here we are. October, nineteen ninety-nine. A good year. Economy still going strong, none of that post-9-11 paranoid bullshit to deal with. I did a lot of business that year."

"You find the entry?"

"Hold yer horses, kid. Rome wasn't built in a day, ya know…lemme see, now. Wertheimer, Alice. Lot of two hundred nurse romances, circa early 1960's…nope, that ain't it. Garrett, Floyd. First edition of _Moby Dick_…" he turned a page. "Okay, here we go—hey." He looked up at Bishop, startled. "How about that, huh?"

Bishop bent to see where he was pointing. In Markham's spidery, painstaking handwriting, the date and the words _lot of German-language first editions_ were clearly visible, but then someone had spilled liquid over the rest of the page, obliterating both the name of the seller and Markham's price.

Bishop was silent for a long moment. He didn't look surprised, though; if anything, Markham thought the young man appeared sad, distant. Finally, he spoke.

"Ink and paper never let you down, huh, Ed?"

"Fuck you, Bishop. Anyway, it don't matter. I remember, I sold the entire lot to this woman about a month later. That entry should be in the next volume." With an effort, he shut the ledger and made his laborious way up the stepladder again. Bishop didn't offer to help him, though he clearly wanted to, for which Markham was grateful. Always sensitive about his height, or rather, the lack thereof, he didn't need some tall, good-looking bastard accentuating the difference between them, however inadvertently.

"Met a friend of yours earlier," he commented, as he began thumbing through the next ledger.

"Yeah?" This time, Bishop did sound shocked. Not to mention wary. "Who was it?"

"Dunno what his name is. Some weird-looking bald guy in a fancy suit. No eyebrows, lashes, nothin'. Talked weird, too. 'Tell Peter Bishop they have arrived' he said, and then he just disappeared. Took a taxi, I guess, though I didn't see him get one. That was it."

"The Observer." Bishop drew a long breath. "You saw him."

"Yeah, I saw him. And he saw me. What'd you call him? The Observer?" Markham turned a page. "Who is this guy, anyway?"

"Far as I can tell, they're physical manifestations of a philosophical idea."

"Say what?" Markham looked up at that, distracted. "You mean, like Death in the _Discworld_ novels?"

"Kind of. No, not really. What do you know about quantum physics?"

"Not much. I've always preferred words to equations."

"Well, there's this theory that a human observer is required to both observe and define the properties of an object. You know, like if a tree falls in the forest and nobody's around to hear it…"

"…does it make a sound?" Markham finished for him. "Is the cat alive or dead or both? Yeah, that much I'm familiar with. Not you, honey," he added to the kitten, who'd woken up at the word 'cat' and was eyeing him cautiously. "So, this guy observes…wait a minute. You said 'they'. There's more than one?"

"Twelve, I think. One for each month of the year, though I've never seen them all together. They exist in all time periods simultaneously and show up at important events throughout history. They're not supposed to intervene, but sometimes-"

"Yeah, I can guess how it goes," Markham interrupted. "I've heard that one before. 'Oh, no, we never, _ever_ intervene', and before you know it, they're up to their eyeballs in all kinds of crazy-ass shit." He looked thoughtfully at his visitor. On one hand, from the way he talked, Bishop was clearly bonkers—certifiable, batshit insane—but on the other, Markham found himself accepting every word the younger man said at face value. He couldn't think why. He shouldn't even be talking to this guy, let alone sharing private customer information with him. On an intellectual level he knew he'd never seen Bishop before in his life, yet at the same time it was like they were old friends, and Bishop had just returned from a long journey.

Returned from where; now, that was the question.

While the two men spoke, Markham had been leafing through the ledger, keeping one eye on the neat rows of words and numbers, and now he tapped one entry with his forefinger. "Here. November the eighteenth, nineteen ninety-nine. Lot of German first editions, sold to an N. Sharp."

"Well_, damn_, Ed." Bishop took a look at the selling price and did a double-take, eyes widening. "I was pretty naïve at twenty, but I never thought you'd screw me over that badly. Or Ni—or this N. Sharp person, for that matter." He glanced up from the page, a speculative grin replacing his look of outrage. "What do you remember about N. Sharp?"

"Sharp by name, sharp by nature." Markham's eyes took on a faraway, reminiscent look. "A feisty redhead. Good looker, if you like the type. I've always been partial to redheads, myself."

"Me too. I prefer blondes, though. You remember anything else? She say anything when she bought them?"

"Only that they reminded her of an old friend." Markham frowned with the effort of recall. "She was a smooth operator. Tried to get me to knock half off the selling price because some kid had scribbled all over the margins of _Josephine_—mostly stuff like 'Oh, my God, I can't believe anyone can actually _do_ that-'" he broke off, laughing outright at the younger man's embarrassed expression.

"Look, I was fifteen when I read it, okay?" said Bishop, in his own defense. "That book was way more interesting than what passed for sex ed. in junior health class. 'Course, a lot of it turned out to be physically impossible, not to mention dead wrong." He cleared his throat. "Anything else you remember about Ms. Sharp?"

"Quite a lot, as it happens, but I'm damned if I'm gonna tell _you_ about it. Let's just say not _all_ of that book is physically impossible, and much of what you've heard about short guys isn't urban legend, either, and leave it at that." Markham wiggled his eyebrows in a Groucho Marx leer.

Bishop eyed the bookseller with mingled horror and respect. "Okay, that officially qualifies as 'way too much information.' Moving on to another topic, what do you think the Observer meant when he said 'tell Peter Bishop they've arrived'?"

"How the hell should I know? He's your creepy friend, not mine."

"Believe me, he isn't my friend. But at the same time he seems to have some kind of strange connection with me and the people I'm close to. And his turning up generally means something bad is about to happen."

"What kind of bad?"

"Weird bad."

Weird bad, Markham thought. Big, see-through snakes tearing their way through my shop qualify as weird bad. And this guy looks like he's seen plenty of weird in his lifetime, not to mention really, really bad. It's in his eyes. If I can trust anyone to help me figure out what's been going on here, it's him…

"And speaking of weird," Bishop was saying, "time to check in with the troops." He pulled an iPhone from his jeans pocket and tapped at it. After a few moments, a loud—and very irate—male voice could be heard speaking.

"Rawlins? Is that you? What the hell, agent? You were supposed to report in over two hours ago-"

Bishop winked at Markham. "Hey, Philip," he said into the phone.

"What? Who is this? _Bishop_? What the hell is going on? Where's Agent Rawlins?"

"I thought you should know, Philip," said Bishop, "that Timmy's in the well. Oh, don't worry, he's unharmed. Maybe a little chilly, and he'll have a nasty headache for a few days, but he'll get over it. I'm sending a picture now. Oh, and don't bother trying to contact Agent Briscoe. She's on a plane right now to San Francisco. Family emergency, but it's not as bad as she thinks."

He tapped the screen a few more times and tilted it so Markham could get a look at the picture he was sending. The little screen showed a muscular African-American man of early middle age, tied into a neat bundle with quantities of duct tape and dangling from a rope inside a small backyard well. Judging from the expression on what was visible of his face, he was in a far-from-pleasant mood.

"Bishop, you release my agent _right now_, and then get your ass over to headquarters ASAP or there will be _consequences_, do you hear me?" Bishop winced a little and held the phone out at arms' length, listening to the bellows of rage that issued from the speaker. Markham thought he looked a trifle pale. The voice on the other end was still shouting angrily as Bishop tapped the screen again and ended the call. A chime sounded as he turned the phone off completely.

"You do realize," said Markham, "the first thing your friend Philip is going to do is activate the GPS signal on that thing."

"I'm counting on it," said Bishop. "Right now, the tracker is in the back of a taxi on its way to Logan Airport, and I used Agent Rawlins's internet account and credit card to book a one-way flight to Grand Cayman in the name of Peter Knight."

"You think they'll fall for that?"

"Probably not for long. At least, Olivia won't…which is why I've planted a few other false leads around the city. By the time they've rescued Timmy and followed them all up, I should be…elsewhere. Right now, I imagine, Agent Broyles is barking orders and mobilizing his troops, and Agents Dunham and Lee are…well, let's take a look, shall we?" So saying, he took out what Markham saw was a pair of ordinary safety glasses, the kind worn by workers in machine shops. This pair had been modified in some way with a small piece of computer circuitry duct taped to one of the earpieces. The whole thing emitted a constant, annoying, low-level hum. A tiny blue light blinked on and off.

Bishop slipped the glasses on. Then, frowning, he removed them, and taking a tiny screwdriver from a pocket, made a minute adjustment to the earpiece.

"There, that's better. Yeah, just as I thought. Linc's gearing up to free Timmy. Olivia thinks the whole thing is too easy, and now she's asking Broyles for permission to…well, see for yourself." He slid the glasses off his nose and held them out to Markham.

Markham exchanged his own reading glasses for the pair Bishop handed him. He gave a start as the scene in front of him changed without warning from his familiar bookshop to a high-tech Federal office in the heart of downtown Boston. A tall, thin black man in an expensive suit appeared to be issuing orders, while a good-looking blonde sat tapping at a laptop computer, her expression intent. In the background, other agents were rushing about carrying stacks of reports, eyeing computer screens, or strapping on weapons and bulletproof vests. As far as Markham could tell, he was seeing everything through the eyes of another agent who was engaged in putting on his own protective gear and simultaneously trying to hit on the blonde.

"Where's the sound on this thing?" Markham jiggled the glasses.

"I'm a genius, not a miracle worker. Visual only. Hey, careful with that, it's delicate." Bishop took the glasses back and replaced them in his pocket.

"Who's the hot blonde?"

"That's Olivia—Agent Dunham."

"Whoo baby," was Markham's response. "I wouldn't kick that one out of bed for eating, well, anything, if you get my drift." He wiggled his eyebrows again. The sudden change in Bishop's expression told him everything he needed to know about _that_ relationship.

"She dumped you, huh?" Markham tried, and failed, to sound sympathetic. Bishop gave a long sigh.

"It's a lot more complicated than that, but for the sake of simplicity, yeah, I guess you could say she dumped me."

"Life's tough all over, kid. But still, plenty of fish in the sea, right? Hey, ya wanna tell me what the hell's going on? Not that I care what you do, but I don't want the Feds crawling all over this joint. Business is bad enough as it is."

Bishop hesitated, then sighed again. "Okay, I guess I owe you that much. For what it's worth, everything I've told you today has been the truth, as I know it…hey, are those _babas au rhum_?"

"Knock yourself out." Markham shoved the bakery box toward his visitor. "Keep talking."

"Thanks." Bishop took three, and took a bite before replying. Markham listened in growing awe and astonishment as Bishop told a tale that seemed to grow stranger by the word. It took a long time. All the pastries had been eaten, the coffee pot emptied and refilled, and a large pizza with sausage and mushrooms ordered by the time Bishop finished his story.

"…and so you don't have to worry about the Feds coming here," he said at last. "Since we never met in this timeline, there's nothing to connect me with you or your shop. You probably don't even have the _First People_ book here, do you?"

"I'd remember something like that." Markham gave a dry chuckle. "From what you've told me, it sounds about as much fun as having a copy of the _Necronomicon_ hanging around." The doorbell jangled, heralding the arrival of their pizza. "Now, let's have a little quantum entanglement to go with our lunch, shall we, and take a look at these books you've brought me?"

It wasn't their pizza, though. The door opened to reveal a couple of pasty teens wearing identical long black coats and a wealth of facial jewelry. They scowled at Markham and Bishop on general principles, scuffed the floor with their heavy boots, and made their way straight to the back of the shop, which housed the comics and gaming section.

Markham, muttering something about 'punk-ass little snots', went to refill his coffee mug and feed the kitten, who had awoken from her pre-lunch nap and was trying to eat a paperback edition of _Atlas Shrugged_. Bishop picked her up.

"That'll give you indigestion," he told her. He played with the kitten until Markham came back with their coffees and the dish of cat food, and opened the paper bag he'd brought with him. Markham exchanged his fingerless gloves for a white cotton pair and examined the contents, his face wary.

"This isn't a con, is it?" he asked. "You and the Sharp woman—you aren't in on it together?"

Bishop shook his head. "It's not a con. Look, I know how everything I've told you must sound, but you know I'm telling the truth. How else could I know all about the wombat and the Archbishop? I was there, Markham. I held the Archbishop down while you performed the…extraction. I was there the night we did flaming shots of tequila and hustled pool until we got chased out of Donovan's Bar and Grille and down an alley by bikers. I sold you these books back in 1999—these very same books, Markham, not copies—and yet somehow, they were in the house I'm living in."

"And in another universe, we're drinking buddies." Markham was still having trouble processing it all.

"Another timeline. Same universe, except this time around I'm not supposed to exist, which is why you don't remember me."

"Yeah, and that's the part I don't get about this whole deal. You say you want to get home—but what makes you so sure you got a home to get to? Suppose you find a way to activate this machine you told me about, and it dumps you out in, oh , I dunno, a post-apocalyptic wasteland crawling with flesh-eating vampire zombies, or some shit like that? So the hot blonde don't love you no more. Big friggin' whoop. Plenty of fish in the sea, right? You willing to risk everything—maybe destroy the whole universe again—just because you got your widdle feelings hurt?"

As Bishop opened his mouth to reply, a loud thump from the back of the store made both men turn their heads.

"You want me to go back there?" Bishop spoke in a low voice. "Make sure those two aren't stealing anything?" Markham chuckled.

"Don't worry, kid. Nobody rips off Edward Markham and gets away with it. I got a few little surprises of my own hidden around this shop for any would-be thieves dumb enough to try."

Bishop's humorless smile looked like it had been dragged out of him. "I bet you do. And to answer your question, yes, I _am_ willing to risk everything, because I know this isn't my timeline, and because it isn't just about _my_ feelings. I know the people I love are out there somewhere trying to find me just as hard as I'm trying to find them. And I'm not going to rest until I do." He seared the bookseller with a furious glare. "What?"

"What?" Markham echoed.

"I know that look, Markham. What's on that devious little mind of yours?"

"Unlike you, Bishop, I ain't so sure you're in the wrong place—time, whatever. I think…" Markham paused, searching for the right words. "I think you been remaindered."

"I've been _what_?"

"Remaindered. It's what happens when a publisher gets stuck with some piece of crap book they can't unload. The books get stripped of their covers and sold at a steep discount by whatever retailer will take them. That's you, Bishop. Crapped out naked as the day you were born by an uncaring universe into a world that don't want you, and left to rot in the discount rack at the Overstock Mart of Life. And you're just gonna have to sack up and deal, 'cause it ain't gonna get any better."

"You have a real cheery personal philosophy, you know that?" Bishop eyed him sourly.

"Hey, it gets me through the long winter nights, kid. But if you're determined to go through with this-"

"I am."

"-then I'm guessing what brought you here is, you're short of cash and figured you'd sell old Markham back the same books you unloaded on him all those years ago, am I right?"

"Well, yeah." Bishop rubbed his hands over his face. "Look, I'm not asking for the same price you got out of Nina Sharp, although considering inflation and the shifting market I could probably get about twice that from another dealer. But I don't have time to haggle. I'll settle for twenty percent, and all I ask is that if Nina—or anyone by the name of Bishop or Dunham—comes calling for any reason, you give them first chance at the books, and treat them fairly. Deal?"

"Twenty percent of what I got from the Sharp broad?" Markham's expression went crafty. "Hell, kid, that's still more than what I paid you back in '99…" His voice ran down as the full implication of what he'd just said hit him.

"So you _do_ remember me."

"Well, no. Sorry, kid. But I wasn't lying when told you I remember every book that's come through here. The transaction—that part's clear as day. I'm just foggy on a few of the details, is all. I'm not saying it wouldn't have come back to me eventually, though, given time. More things in heaven and earth, right?" He barked out a short laugh. "Yeah, we got a deal, Bishop. And for what it's worth, I hope you get back to wherever it is you're going." _If_ you get there, he didn't add. As far as he was concerned, he'd already said his piece. "Say 'hey' to the other me when you get there, okay?"

"Okay."

The two men shook hands. Markham twirled the tumblers on his wall safe (hidden behind a framed print of "Dogs Playing Poker") and stowed the small stack of books neatly away. Quite a lot of cash exchanged hands, accompanied by a last regretful look from the bookseller.

Bishop had just secreted the last banded stack of bills in one of the many interior pockets of his borrowed jacket and was preparing to depart when the kitten started up from her perch on the countertop, arching her back and snarling like Shere Kahn facing down Mowgli. A moment later, the sound of rustling autumn leaves made Edward Markham freeze. He felt the blood drain from his face as he turned toward the source of the noise.

"Oh, shit." His voice came out in a trembling whisper. "It's happening again."

"What?" Bishop pushed him aside and headed toward the sound. "What's happening? No, keep back," he added over his shoulder. "I've heard this before."

He disappeared behind the rows of bookcases, Markham watching his departing back anxiously. Out of the corner of one eye, he glimpsed a lanky, black-clad figure sidle out the front door as inconspicuously as possible and disappear down the street. You've got the right idea, boys, he thought. Better run while you can.

After several tense minutes in which Markham thought he could hear the sound of his own heart over the dry rustling, Bishop reappeared. While he didn't look like someone who got a lot of sun in general, he was now noticeably paler than usual. His hands shook, as did his voice.

"Ed," he said, "you've got bookworms."

"_Bookworms_?" Markham's voice came out in an incredulous squeak. He cleared his throat. "You're shittin' me, right?"

"I wish I was. I've seen these things before—when I was inside the machine. This must be what the Observer meant."

"But what _are_ they?"

"Byproducts of inter-dimensional travel." Bishop began to pace, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Why they've turned up here I can't begin to guess. Someone from my timeline could be trying to cross over to look for me, or someone may have activated the machine again. Or it could be something else altogether."

Markham was almost afraid to ask. "What do they do?"

"Same thing as regular bookworms. They create wormholes. Tunnels in the space-time continuum. These are little ones, unstable. They last only a few seconds before collapsing in on themselves. But sooner or later they're gonna stabilize, and then we'll have a full-blown Fringe Event on our hands. The best thing you can do right now is pack a bag and get the hell out of Dodge before your whole shop disappears into a vortex."

"Like hell." Markham shouldered the younger man aside and reached behind the counter for his trusty bat. "You may think you're in the wrong timeline, Bishop, but this bookshop is my _life_." Ignoring Bishop's warning shout, he slung the bat up on one shoulder and strode toward the rustling. It was louder now, more insistent, accompanied by another sound, one he heard almost nightly.

The sound of thousands of books, all talking to him.

It seemed to Markham in his heightened emotional state that their voices had taken on a new edge—one of fear, panic. They were calling out to him, pleading, begging for his help. Ignoring the hand on his shoulder trying to hold him back, Markham pushed forward to where he could plainly see several of the transparent snakelike beings. The air all around them shimmered as if from heat, but instead Markham felt the chill of space, of the void. The creatures writhed, intertwined around the bookcases, appearing and disappearing seemingly at random, mouths full of needle-like teeth shearing holes in reality that shifted and pulsated before collapsing into nothingness. Wherever they appeared or disappeared, things…changed. Markham recoiled as a vintage paperback copy of _The Corpse Steps Out_ rippled and rearranged itself into _The Corpse Stays In_. As he watched, he felt his fear evaporate and coalesce into boiling rage.

"Dammit, Markham, stay back!"

"_They're hurting the books, Bishop_!" Markham's voice issued from between clenched jaws. "Changing them! They need my help!"

"Markham, no!"

"It's okay, fellas!" Markham wiped his hands, slippery with sweat, on his pants and got a tighter grip on his bat. "I'm coming in-" and face set in grim lines, he charged toward the pulsing, writhing mass. The last thing he saw was Bishop's white, terrified face and hands reaching for him as the vortex swirled around him, whirling him into nothingness.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Shit_," said Peter, with feeling.

He spent the next ninety seconds swearing loudly and filthily in all the languages he knew. It didn't help the situation any, but it did make him feel a little better. After a few minutes he felt his heart rate start to return to normal, and his mind clear enough to think logically about the situation, to consider his next move.

His first instinct—to follow his friend into the swirling, pulsating void—was, he knew, both insane and futile. Markham had leaped into an unstable wormhole and could be anywhere, anytime, any universe—that is, if he'd survived the trip without being shattered into his component molecules. Already the worms were beginning to thin out, to dissipate, and as Peter watched, they and the holes they had created winked out of existence one by one, leaving in their wake a wall of books that were subtly different than they had been before.

Maybe it reflected poorly on his character, but Peter just couldn't bring himself to give a damn. They were only ink and paper, after all, not flesh and blood. They didn't _matter_—yet to someone like Markham, who spent all his time around the things, who related to books better than he did most people, they were more than that. They were his family, his children, his responsibility. Trust Markham, who wouldn't help an old lady cross the street, to commit what amounted to suicide in aid of his beloved books.

In any case, Peter's priorities had now changed. His own problems paled in comparison to what had happened to Markham. True, the bookseller had brought it on himself with his own reckless act, but Peter knew he could never face himself again if he didn't make at least some effort to find out what had become of his friend, to try and bring him home.

The arrival of the pizza—for real, this time—provided a momentary distraction. Peter paid the delivery kid with a couple of bills from his newly acquired stash and leaned against the counter, chewing thoughtfully. He had no idea in hell what to do next, and for someone who'd spent much of his life planning, always a step ahead of everyone else, the feeling was an unwelcome one. One thing was for certain—the Observer's cryptic message had been for him, which meant that Baldy had had some knowledge of the situation and expected him, Peter, to do something about it.

"Think, think," he muttered, and then, almost as a reply, he heard a faint sound emanating from the back of the shop.

Peter froze.

Time seemed to stand still as Peter strained to listen, uncertain if the sound had been real or in his imagination, when suddenly there it was again—a soft shuffling, as of shoes scuffing an uneven floor. Followed by something Peter definitely didn't imagine—that of someone trying, and failing, to stifle a sneeze. All of a sudden, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Two boys had entered the shop, but only one came out…

Checking the safety on Agent Tim's Glock, Peter slid the gun into the back of his jeans and crept silently toward the back room. Markham's back room was small and dusty, with wide, uneven floorboards and sagging ceiling beams. Its floor-to-ceiling shelves were crammed to bursting with comic books and graphic novels, manga, and gaming manuals. The only furniture consisted of a long wooden library table laminated with a map of some Middle Earth knock-off, and several metal folding chairs, one of which held a zippered backpack decorated with arcane and self-consciously sinister emblems. Dusty green velveteen drapes covered the only window. As Peter watched, the draperies rippled as if from a breeze, but no air moved inside the little room.

Peter felt his own throat start to close up from all the dust. Swallowing hard and trying not to breathe through his nose, he stepped over the third floorboard from the door—which he knew from experience creaked—and striding to the curtains, yanked them aside.

A pale, startled face topped by spiky reddish hair stared up at him. It belonged to a skinny boy of about sixteen, clad in an ankle-length black duster over artfully ripped black jeans and a tee shirt bearing the legend: _The voices in my head are telling you to fuck off!_ He had a sapphire nose stud, several ear and eyebrow rings, a studded leather dog collar, and acne. Also, a severe case of Teenage Attitude, if Peter was any judge.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded the kid.

"More to the point," replied Peter, "who are you?"

"One of the good guys."

"Good, bad, or indifferent," –Peter drew the Glock and jammed the end of the barrel under the kid's chin- "I'm the guy with the gun. Now, start talking, kid, and make it convincing." The kid's eyes widened, trying and failing to swivel in the direction of the gun, and then they crossed. He made a soft whimpering sound.

"Let's start with something easy," Peter suggested. "Like your name."

A convulsive swallow was the only answer.

"Come on, you can do better than that. Now, what do you say we sit down like a couple of civilized people, and you tell me what you're doing hiding in the back of Markham's shop. What have you got in that backpack of yours, and what does it have to do with these wormholes that are suddenly showing up all over the place? Or I can just call up my friends at the FBI and you can do your explaining from an eight by ten cell with no plumbing, how about it?"

"You got no jurisdiction over me, man." Bravado vied with fear on the kid's face and temporarily won out. "I'm not—not from around here."

"Well, welcome to the club." Peter treated the kid to his most sardonic smile. "I'm not from around here either. Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?" He pulled Agent Tim's badge out of his pocket and flashed it briefly in his captive's face, betting from past experience that the kid wouldn't look too closely or demand further ID. "FBI. Special temporal division. You've been playing around in the fourth dimension, kid."

"How do you kn—I—I mean, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. And you know what? I know all kinds of things, too. But if I told you any of them, I'd have to kill you. Which I may do anyway, if you piss me off." He waved the gun in the general direction of the table and directed his most menacing glare at his prisoner. "Now, sit."

Much to his relief—he didn't really want to have to shoot him, after all—the kid sat. "Okay, let's try this again, shall we?" said Peter, sitting down opposite him and replacing the Glock in the waistband of his jeans. "Now, what's your name? And remember, I'm armed."

The boy licked dry lips. "Toby. Toby Sands."

"Okay, Toby. Now, tell me what's going on here. All of it, from the beginning. Are you and your buddy trying to rob Markham? Really bad idea."

"It was all Jake's fault! His idea, his plan. He made me go along with it. That's the truth, I swear to God."

"Jake is the guy who ran out on you just now? Great partner you got there."

"He didn't run out on me. He's gone to a—a business meeting." Peter arched a skeptical eyebrow. "With our silent partner. Jake wouldn't run out on me. He's not like that."

"Really? I bet that when I catch up with your good friend Jake, he's gonna roll on you so fast your head will spin. So, the truth, Toby, and maybe you won't be looking at a lifetime behind bars."

Toby nodded several times, jerkily, like a bobble-headed doll on a dashboard. His fingers knotted together, then groped for a cigarette packet in his coat pocket. It was empty. He gave it a rather despondent look, before crumpling it and tossing it over his shoulder. "Okay. Okay. You, uh—you got any smokes?"

Peter shook his head. "I have pizza. Which," –he held up a warning finger- "I'll be happy to share once you share some information with me."

Toby licked his lips and did the bobble-head thing again. "You're not gonna believe any of this. You'll think I'm crazy, or high, or screwing with you, or-"

"Try me. I know crazy."

"Well, it all started one night about six months ago. Me and Jake were hanging around his basement, getting stoned and watching this TV show, _Doctor Who_. You ever hear of it?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, like I said, we were stoned, I mean really, _really_ whacked out, and sitting around watching the Doctor and Amy and Rory kick ass, and all of a sudden, something clicked inside my mind and everything made _sense_, you know what I mean?"

"Not even remotely," said Peter.

"I mean," said Toby, "that I suddenly understood what's responsible for all the fucked-up shit in the universe. And you know what it is?"

"Rupert Murdoch?"

"Time travel," said Toby.

"_Time_ travel?"

"Yeah, I told you it sounds crazy, right? But when you start from the premise that time travel is _real_ and people are doing it all the time—ha ha—then everything starts to make sense. All the times you've had _déjà vu_, or—or you're walking down the street and all of a sudden you see someone who looks exactly like you, and then you blink and they're gone..."

Toby's eyes shone with the fanatic gleam of the truly obsessed; his apparent fear of The Man evaporating in the excitement of telling his tale. He leaned over the table toward Peter, hands gesticulating wildly as he spoke. Peter noticed that the pupils of his pale blue eyes were pinpoints, despite the low light of the little room.

"Or, or, maybe some stranger comes up to you and they're all like, 'Dude, how's it going?' and you know you've never seen them before in your life. Or you start having memories that aren't yours, but at the same time they are. Time travel. It explains everything. And guess who's the clever boy who figured out how to do it? That's right, dude. You're lookin' at him." Toby folded his arms and sat back grinning, smug.

Peter regarded Toby through narrowed eyes. He showed little outward reaction, but his mind reeled. Was it possible that this kid, who looked like a refugee from a half-price sale at Hot Topic, had actually discovered a means of travelling though time? And did he have any idea of the damage he could cause—had already caused—to the fabric of reality? And—here Peter's imagination began to take flight—was it possible that Toby held the key to getting him home?

All his instincts told him that Toby was more likely just a pawn of some other powerful entity, someone manipulating the boy for his or her own use. How much he really knew and understood was the question. Peter knew he needed to tread lightly if he was to get the information he needed to help Markham. He had to be careful not to spook the boy, make him clam up before he told Peter what he needed to know. Fortunately, Toby was in love with his own cleverness, and now that he'd started, more than eager to keep talking.

"How are you doing it?" Peter asked, keeping his voice low and neutral. "Some kind of machine?"

"So last decade, dude. Drugs." Toby grinned broadly at Peter's expression, and went on, "Specifically, a proprietary blend of herbal compounds. Since that was what gave me and Jake the idea in the first place, it made sense that it held the key to the answer. It took a lot of experimenting to get exactly the right combination, of course."

"Of course." Peter found himself nodding in ironic agreement. Drugs, naturally, what else? He was betting one of the main ingredients was a whopping dose of lysergic acid diethylamide. The idea that this kid and his buddy might actually be _Dawson's Creek_ versions of Walter Bishop and William Bell made him almost laugh in spite of himself. Except that instead of making time with Katie Holmes, they were tearing holes in the fabric of the universe. Not exactly a laughing matter.

"You won't rat me out to the 'rents, will you?" Toby was asking, his voice anxious. "I mean, it's not really stealing, what we're doing. We pay the going rate for the goods, whatever time we're in. Nobody gets screwed, and me and Jake are gonna be set for life. I mean, forget flipping burgers and all that shit, it's gonna be Ferraris and supermodels by the time we're seniors-"

"What?' said Peter, distracted. "What do you mean, 'it's not really stealing'? Toby, what are you and Jake doing?" All of a sudden, the boy seemed disinclined to talk. He pressed his lips together, but Peter saw his eyes dart to the backpack and back again.

"Toby, what have you got in that backpack? What did you take from Markham?"

"Nothing! I'm not crazy, man. The little dude has a real nasty streak, but you probably already know that, if you're his friend. We've just been using this place as a base of operations, 'cause of its location. I mean, there's been like, twenty, thirty different newsstands on this one block over the past seventy years…" his voice ran down as he saw the expression on Peter's face. All of a sudden, the other shoe had dropped.

"You're using your discovery to cash in, aren't you?" Peter said. "You pick up some article from the past, bring it forward in time to 2012, and sell it at a profit."

Toby nodded, his grin breaking out again even wider than before. "Comics, mostly, but a few regular books, too. And don't even get me started on the games."

"Games? What, like computer and video games? What about them?"

Toby leaned forward, his voice confidential. "Turns out, the folks who design and develop that stuff get really pissed if anyone even _thinks_ about leaking a game to the internet before its official release date. They're willing to pay some serious ching to anyone who happens to get ahold of a copy a few weeks or months in advance and casually mentions that they might just put it out there for all the world to see. I mean, I pulled down sixteen grand this last quarter alone. But this—this is my finest achievement so far." Reaching for the backpack, he unzipped it and after a brief search, extracted a cellophane bagged comic book, which he shoved under Peter's nose. "Feast your eyes on this sweet baby right here," he said in a gloating voice. "The mother lode. The mother of them all."

Peter choked as he stared in what was in front of him. He barely recognized his own voice. "That's—that's the number one _Batman_ from 1940."

"The real deal, not a copy," Toby agreed. "Sold for a cool million bucks at the last auction. And that was over two years ago, and it was in slightly less than mint condition. Whereas this one's as crisp and perfect as the day it came from the printer's. Which was about two weeks ago, in a sense."

"That's…" Peter hesitated, searching for the right words. That's…absolutely brilliant. God, I wish I'd thought of it. "Highly unethical," he said aloud. "Not to mention extremely dangerous."

"It's not stealing!" Toby said again. "I paid the newsstand dude ten cents, man, just like it says on the cover."

"Which brings me to another point." Peter tore his eyes away from Batman and made himself face the kid sternly, the righteous authority figure. He collected his scattered thoughts. "No way you and Jake are running this scam on your own. You've got someone backing you, supplying information and materiel. So you're paying for this stuff—good for you. Who're you getting the money from?"

"You kidding me, dude? A freaking dime?" Toby's face was abruptly wary.

"Stop calling me dude. The currency was different in 1940." Peter leaned over the table, looming over Toby. "Not only the dates, but the designs. And I've seen enough old movies to know that if you walk up to a newsstand in 1940 dressed like that, they're gonna take you for one of those sideshow freaks who bites the heads off chickens."

"Screw you."

"Look, insult me all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that you must be getting outside help from someone. Someone who has the resources to either get you old currency or make up some passable forgeries, plus find you the right clothes to blend into any time period. Now, who is it?"

"I can't tell you." Toby swallowed. All at once, his bravado vanished, leaving him looking very young—and fearful. "They made me promise, me and Jake. If we rat them out, we'll be locked up for life and never see our families again."

Peter believed him. The fear coming off the boy was almost palpable. He could smell Toby's sweat.

"Can I have that pizza now?" Fear evidently wasn't enough to override the bottomless pit that was a teenage boy's appetite.

"In a minute. I have a couple more questions for you first. What can you tell me about the wormholes? I know they're a side effect of what you've been doing, but where do they go?"

"Beats me, du—beats me." Toby shrugged. "Jake thinks they lead to another reality—you know, a parallel universe. We've seen what we think are glimpses of it. They're still using, like, zeppelins and stuff. Jake wants to go, but I won't let him. I'm not that stupid. I mean, we could be torn into our component molecules and re-assembled as—as giant man-eating slugs, or something." He stole a glance at Peter and looked quickly away, as if embarrassed. "Look, I feel kinda bad about what happened to old Markham, but it wasn't my fault. I mean, how was I supposed to know the little dude was gonna jump into one of those things? He must be even nuttier than everyone says."

"A parallel universe."

"I know, sounds crazy, right? Oh, wait—you know crazy."

"I know that crazy," said Peter. He stood up slowly. "Okay, here's the deal, sunshine—you're gonna take me there."

"Into—into a wormhole?" Toby stared, his face whitening. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Probably. But it may be the only way for me to save Markham, and I don't have the time or resources to make—other arrangements. Now come on. Break out the syringe, or whatever it is. First, you're gonna take me a few hours or minutes back in time, just far enough to open a wormhole. And then—well, it's the great plunge into the unknown."

"What do you mean, 'other arrangements'?" Toby asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Never mind. Let's go."

"Jake's gonna kill me if I go without him," Toby wailed.

"I'm gonna kill you harder if you keep stalling." Peter made an abrupt movement toward the Glock. Toby flinched, and after a few moments' internal struggle he opened his backpack again and reluctantly removed a small, flat leather case. It resembled the case Peter had once used to carry his lockpicking tools, now gone along with his life, his girlfriend, and all of his belongings. He swallowed hard against the abrupt rush of nostalgia this small item invoked. Toby unzipped the case, revealing a syringe, a row of cellophane-wrapped needles, and several small vials filled with green and yellow liquid.

"Yellow gets you there, green gets you back."

"Oh," said Peter, "like the rings in _The Magician's Nephew_."

"The what?"

"Forget it," Peter sighed. "What _do_ they teach them in these schools?"

"You're making no sense, man."

Peter folded his arms across his chest and tapped one foot meaningfully.

"Okay, okay, I can take a hint." Grumbling under his breath, and with shaking hands, Toby opened a fresh needle, inserted it into the syringe, and drew in a small amount of yellow fluid. "I've never done such a short jump before," he murmured, half to himself. "Usually a few weeks, at least, not hours…just a few ccs, I think…there, that should do it. It takes about five minutes for the drug to kick in," he added, glancing up at Peter. "I think I should inject you first-"

"Nice try," Peter treated him to a humorless smile. "You first, and no tricks."

Scowling, Toby drew another equal measure of fluid into the syringe, all the while aware of Peter's eyes on him. Then he pulled a couple of alcohol pads from his backpack, ripped one open, and rolled up his left sleeve. Peter noticed that his forearm was already riddled with numerous needle tracks. Jesus, kid, he thought. How long have you been doing this? With the practiced movements of any junkie off the street, Toby tied off his arm with a length of rubber tubing, found the vein, and injected half the liquid into his arm. A slight shudder passed through his body, and for a moment Peter feared he might be too far gone for Part Two of the operation. Wondering what the hell he was getting himself into, he helped Toby open another needle and attach it to the syringe.

"Me and Jake…we always hold hands." Toby's voice sounded thick and slurred, coming as if from a great distance. "So we don't get separated…"

"Good idea." Peter slid the syringe into his own arm and depressed the plunger. For a moment nothing happened; then, all at once, he felt his blood turn to liquid fire coursing through his veins. His vision blurred, and it seemed as if the walls of the little room were both closing in and retreating into the distance at the same time. A rustling, a susurrus as of autumn leaves blowing in the wind, chilled his blood with dread even as it burned through his body. Peter saw a shimmer like heat haze that rippled the objects in his line of vision, and he heard something else—voices, hundreds, thousands of voices, all talking in unison. Their words sounded familiar even as the voices themselves were unknown to him. He heard his own heartbeat, a loud, steady drum that filled his head and his hearing. There was nothing else left in the world but it and the voices—pounding at him, screaming, vying for attention, louder and louder till he thought he might pass out from the intensity of the emotions thrown at him. He was dimly aware of Toby shouting something, of Toby's hand clutching his own, and then a white, swirling mist filled his vision, and then—


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Edward Markham opened one eye.

The universe slowly spun, reshaping and reforming around him. He was formless, a void. He didn't know who he was, or where, or when. _How_ and _why_ had left the building without stopping to ask for directions. His head and heart pounded in unison, as if he'd been on an all-night bender, and the blood roared in what presumably were his ears.

Consciousness returned, along with memory.

After what might have been seconds, or centuries, he realized he was lying full length on the floor of his own bookshop. He knew it was his bookshop—here was the same free-standing shelf crammed with vintage crime novels in lurid jackets, there the tattered edge of the frayed Oriental carpet, the same familiar feel of floorboards worn smooth by generations of feet.

The light looked wrong though; it was too bright, too diffused, coming from all the wrong angles. Markham blinked, trying his eyes out. It seemed to him as he slowly moved head and limbs, testing for injury, that the walls were further away than they ought to be. It must be some after-effect of…whatever had happened to him, after he touched the _things_. Wormholes, Bishop had called them.

Bishop! He'd know what was going on. Markham sat up abruptly, whispering the name through dry, chapped lips. His throat burned and his head swam; Markham swayed, and sank to the floor again. His right hand touched something; it turned out to be the handle of his trusty Louisville Slugger. He gripped it, finding comfort in the familiar feel of the smooth ash wood under his hand. He lay a few more minutes, breathing steadily and fighting nausea, before trying again, pushing himself up first on one elbow, then on both, till he was sitting more or less in an upright position.

Now to look around. Left…right…good. Markham froze in mid neck swivel as he saw that the room was subtly yet significantly different. The bookcase looked newer, for a start, made of some heavy, plastic-like material rather than the familiar dark oak. The carpet, no longer tattered and worn thin, had been expertly repaired, and appeared as bright and fresh as the day it was woven. And yes, the walls _were_ further away—in fact, Markham noted to his astonishment that an entire side wall had been removed, expanding the bookshop to the whole lower level of the building. It was something he'd always dreamed of doing; the Big Time, yet somehow he'd never managed to save up the cash to get it done. And the dry cleaner next door had made it clear that he'd never sell.

Markham wobbled to his feet, using his bat as a cane, and gaped around him in growing awe and amazement. The books looked the same; there on the shelf in front of him sat _The Corpse Steps Out_, yet the whole shop was clean—cleaner than he'd ever had the time or inclination to get it. The windows positively sparkled, the floor was polished and waxed to within an inch of its life, and the slowly revolving ceiling fan wafted a faint whiff of citrus oil throughout the room. The walls had been painted a fashionable shade of burgundy with cream trim, and glowed under brilliant track lighting. From a short distance away came the sounds of clinking plates and glassware mingled with bright laughter and cocktail party chatter.

"What in the name of…?" Markham glanced down at his left hand, which, he saw, was still clutching the copy of _The Corpse Stays In_ that had so disturbed him earlier. Frowning, he opened it and flipped through the pages. The characters were the same, yet the story was slightly altered from the one he knew. He snatched its almost-twin from the shelf and gave it a quick once-over, confirming that here was the same familiar old story he'd read many times before. "Come to Papa, baby," he murmured, and almost without thinking, pocketed both volumes. Somebody, he thought, had a lot of questions to answer.

And looking around at the shelves, Markham discovered something else. His shop had always contained a mixture of vintage and modern books, the old and the new, current bestsellers jostling for space with obscure volumes of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Yet in this brightly-lit, sparkling, Bizarro version of his shop, he could see nothing that was less than thirty or forty years old.

"Bishop." His voice had come back. Good, that was a start. Time to get some answers. "I'm fine, kid, thanks a lot for asking. Hey, Bishop, what the hell is…" Markham rounded the corner to confront the man standing there and for the second time his voice died in his throat.

He was looking at himself.

Like everything here, his double was the same, yet different. Instead of a comfortably threadbare old sweater and baggy corduroys worn smooth at the knees, this Edward Markham wore a pricey salmon pink silk shirt under an elegant, hand-tailored suit that looked like it might be Armani. Above fashionable narrow spectacles his hair was sleek, shiny, and full. A multi-carat diamond stud gleamed in one earlobe. One manicured hand twirled a champagne glass, while the other performed complicated computations on some kind of oversized tablet computer.

And the customers! They _filled_ the central area, winding in a long line from the counter to the door and down the street as far as the eye could see. Everywhere Markham looked, people were browsing through books, buying books, sipping champagne, and nibbling sophisticated little _hors d'oeuvres_ plucked from trays carried by smiling waitresses. Most of them, Markham saw, carried iPad-or-tablet-things like the one his double was using. Off to the left, a large poster mounted on an easel announced that today, local author Katherine Anne Sheehan would be reading excerpts from her new novel, _A Murder in Fringe Division_. At a long, low table, a smartly-dressed woman of middle age, presumably Ms. Sheehan herself, sat signing everyone's tablets with some kind of electronic stylus. Every time she scrawled her signature, it made a _bzzzt_ sound.

As Markham gazed wide-eyed at all the activity around him, his double turned and saw him. Just for a moment the two men stared at each other, caught up in awestruck astonishment, unable to speak or even move. Then, all at once, the moment ended. The other Markham was the first to recover; setting down his tablet, he strolled forward to greet his latest visitor.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here," this almost-doppelganger drawled, "and guess that you aren't my long-lost twin brother Edgar Markham, separated from me at birth and abandoned at Back Bay Station in a handbag."

"You got that right," Markham recovered enough to say. He managed a few tentative steps forward, wondering what the etiquette was for this type of situation. _So, unless I hit my head harder than I thought, this must be that parallel universe place I've heard so much about. Pleased to meet me_. His twin said it for him.

"You're me, aren't you?" he asked. "From another universe. One hears stories, of course, but I never believed it was even possible till now. How did you cross over? Did it hurt? You look a trifle…disheveled."

Markham licked dry lips. Bishop wasn't crazy, he thought. It's all real. "You know about other universes?" He didn't mention he'd only heard about them himself this morning.

"As I said, I've heard stories. Whispered hints, circulating for years now. Mostly among the more lunatic fringe, who use them as a scapegoat for everything from sheep going extinct to male pattern baldness, but about a year ago the rumors really started to fly thick and fast. Supposedly, some government higher-ups kidnapped a woman from the other universe and replaced her with her double from here. Meant to be top-secret, of course, but these things have a way of getting out. It's why I don't set much store by conspiracy theories—most people just aren't capable of keeping their mouths shut."

"Then you didn't bring me here?"

"I just sell books." His double spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. He smiled, but his eyes remained wary. "Do I look like a theoretical physicist?"

"Well, someone did, and it sure as hell wasn't me," said Markham. He looked around, blinking in the unaccustomed brightness of the shop. "Not to mention, they're screwing with the books, and they're gonna answer to me for that. Where's Bishop? Is he here?"

"Bishop?" The other Markham raised an eyebrow. "The only Bishop I know is the Secretary of Defense, and when I say 'know', I mean by reputation only. Never met the man in person, though I understand we share the same tailor." He smirked a little, flicking an invisible speck of dust from one immaculate cuff. "May I ask what you meant by 'screwing with the books'? I assure you my store accounts are entirely in order, though what concern that might be of yours-"

"Not that kinda books." Markham just managed not to add "dipshit" at the end. No point in antagonizing…himself, though for him fear always manifested as anger, and he could feel the first prickling of panic sliding icy fingers along his spine. If Bishop hadn't followed him here, where the hell was he? Was it possible that he, Markham, might be trapped in Bizarro Universe for all eternity? No. No, he refused to believe that. Bishop would come through for him. Together, they'd find a way back…

"This," he said, pulling out the two paperbacks from his sweater pocket and brandishing them at his double. "They got switched somehow, right before I…crossed over. And it ain't the first time, either. It's been happening with lots of different books; a word here and there, a character, a picture, maybe—and it's hurting them. They don't like it." He paused, feeling slightly foolish revealing this aspect of his inner life to this elegant stranger with his face. He didn't like playing straight man to anyone, and was struck by a sudden, insane fear that his double might laugh at him, or worse, think he was crazy.

"Two objects cannot occupy the same space," his double murmured, studying the two books, turning them over and over in his manicured hands. "Something has to give. Look at this. It's extraordinary. Even the covers are mirror images of each other. And it's happened before, you say? I wonder…that could explain why…" his voice trailed off.

"Explain what?" Markham demanded.

"Why Fringe Division sent one of their agents out here three times in the last week. Some sort of energy spike, she said, but it always disappeared by the time she got here. Finally, she wrote it off as an equipment malfunction, but perhaps it was you, all along, trying to cross universes." His voice softened, turned reminiscent. "Agent Dunham, her name is. A feisty redhead. Likes Vonnegut and Stephen King. I wouldn't kick that one out of bed for eating…well, anything, if you get my drift." He wiggled an eyebrow suggestively.

Talk about _deja-vu_, Markham thought. Maybe we're more alike than I thought. "And I'm telling you, I ain't the one doing this." He returned with decision to the topic at hand. "I didn't come here to Book Club Med for no holiday. I was dragged here when I touched a...well, Bishop called them bookworms. Big, transparent snaky things. They're eating holes in reality. Bishop says they're a byproduct of travel in the fourth dimension, and I figure that's as good an explanation as any."

"Time travel?" His twin looked startled.

"That's what the fourth dimension is, ain't it? Somebody's screwing around with time, and they've been doing it for a while now. Look, I know books, and I'm guessing you do too, since we're the same guy, in a sense, and when you get a whole bunch of 'em together, things get…funny. I've known that for a long time. But lately—things are getting funnier, and not in a ha-ha way. It's hurting the books. Eating away at them, destroying their sense of self. I hear them talking, at night-"

"You what?" The other bookseller stared at him for a moment, an odd expression on his face. For a minute Markham thought he was going to call for the boys in white coats, but then he let out a long breath that was almost a sigh. "You've heard it too? Thank God—I thought I was losing my mind. I thought when I finally moved out of that ghastly apartment upstairs it would all go away, but it's only gotten worse." He turned on his twin, his face suddenly full of grim determination. "Markham, we have to stop—whoever is doing this."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Who?" his double asked, frowning. "How do you suggest…?" Markham was about to ask how in hell was _he_ supposed to know, when they were joined by the most stunning brunette he'd ever seen. Tall, with generous curves in all the right places, she wore a short black jersey cocktail dress, cut low and tight. She had fashionable blonde streaks in her shiny brown hair, and looked like every late-night fantasy Markham had ever had. She put her arm intimately around the other Markham and smiled sweetly down at him.

"Eddie, sweetheart, Kate's ready for you to introduce her-" she began, and then caught sight of Markham, who was standing with his mouth stupidly agape. She gave a small shriek, stepping backward and almost tripping over her spike heels, one hand to her mouth.

Markham took a second look, and a third, and almost had to restrain a shriek himself. For the brunette was none other than Jill Moss, PHD candidate in genetics and world-class baker; Jill, whom he had never in his life seen wearing anything except baggy cargo pants and t-shirts with local indie bands on them. He'd never entertained any fantasies about _that_ Jill or even thought of her as a remotely sexual being; couldn't imagine her wearing makeup and fuck-me pumps and patterned lace stockings. Or for that matter, shrieking like a starlet in a horror flick.

Eddie Markham put a proprietary arm around this vision's waist, then moved his hand down to her ass. "In a minute, baby," he said. "I'm just chatting with my, er-"

"You're—he's—you're-" Jill sputtered, wide-eyed, index finger wavering between the two men.

"Edgar Markham," said the otherworlder hastily, before Eddie gave the game away. "From Schenectady. We're cousins, identical cousins," he added, and gave a lopsided leer.

Jill looked politely blank—maybe they didn't have _The Patty Duke Show _in this universe, or she was just too young to get the reference—but she took his outstretched hand anyway. "It's a pleasure, Edgar. Wow, the resemblance is really amazing."

"And this is Jill Moss," said Eddie, by way of introduction. "The finest business partner a guy could ask for. All this," –he waved a hand at their surroundings- "is Jill's doing. Three years ago, I was down and out—ready to throw in the towel and take an entry-level job stocking shelves at S-Mart, but Jill convinced me to risk everything and put all my savings into expanding. Turn the shop from a dingy little hole into a real first-class, twenty-first century operation. And she was right—it paid off in spades."

"And we became lovers," said Jill, gazing sappily down at the bookseller. He returned her glance and they made kissing motions at each other.

Just stick a finger down my throat and bring me a bucket, thought Markham. But before it could get any worse, Eddie broke the mood, pulling away from Jill and turning to face his double.

"You'll have to excuse me for a while, I'm afraid," he said. "Duty calls. Jill, dear, will you make sure our guests are seated for the reading?" When she'd moved away, he continued in a lower voice, "In the meantime, perhaps, you can make note of the books that have been—er, altered. I'm damned if I know what to do about this, but if we put both our minds to it, no doubt we can come up with a solution. This Bishop person you've mentioned—can he help?"

"If anyone can," replied Markham. "But he ain't here, and there's no guarantee he's gonna turn up any time soon. So I guess it's just us for right now."

"I wish I could say that inspired confidence," said Eddie, and turned to go. As an afterthought, he turned back to Markham. "Oh—please help yourself to _hors d'oeuvres_ and beverages. We have _guacamole_," he pronounced in a tone in which someone else might have said, "We have Beluga caviar and Perigord truffles."

"Tex-Mex gives me gas," Markham answered, but he went to inspect the buffet anyway. Behind him, he could hear his double introducing Ms. Sheehan, who went on to thank a long line of individuals who had helped her book see the light of day, including her publisher, her husband, and an Agent Lee, who apparently had permitted her to do some kind of ride-along with his division.

As she began to read a scene of a shoot-out in a warehouse, Markham piled a small plate with finger foods and looked around in vain for the coffee urn. The closest he could find was a samovar full of hot water and a selection of tea bags. Champagne sounded more promising, until Markham saw that it came in a plastic box that read "Champagne-type beverage—contains up to 12% real grape juice", and he decided to give it a pass in favor of a mug of Rooibos.

His hands and mouth full of food and drink, Markham made himself as inconspicuous as possible among the shelves of the bookshop, scanning them for anomalous volumes. He felt useless, wondering what in hell he was doing, but soon his instincts regarding his own stock took over. Locating the books from his own universe—there were forty or fifty altogether—he piled them all up on a small table. Might as well have them all together when Bishop showed up—_if_ he showed up—and they did…whatever. Kicked quantum ass. If he listened very closely, Markham could hear the books whispering to each other even now, their voices desperate yet muffled by the volumes piled on top of them.

He even found his copy of the _Wicked Bible_ locked in the Rare Books cabinet behind the counter—wickedness intact, as he was pleased to note once he'd located the key in the same hidden desk drawer where he kept his own—and secreted it under his sweater. He was damned if he was going to let it get away from him again.

Meanwhile, Ms. Sheehan finished reading the scene at the warehouse, to much applause. She went on to read another selection, this time a steamy love scene between agents Kennedy and Warren. As the women in the audience giggled and blushed and fanned themselves, Markham found himself listening to her voice, absorbed in spite of himself. He wondered if she had a counterpart back home in his own universe, whether she was a writer, and what sort of books she wrote if she was. Presumably nothing involving Fringe Division, which according to Bishop was a top-secret organization, unknown to any but certain government higher-ups. Here, it appeared to operate more openly. He resolved to look her up if—no, _when_, he told himself firmly, _when_—he got back home.

It occurred to him that not only Ms. Sheehan, but everyone, every customer in the shop, had their own double, possibly infinite copies of themselves, living similar yet different lives in an infinite number of universes. Somewhere, here yet not here, just out of reach, thousands upon thousands of Edward Markhams were stocking shelves, waiting on customers, making love to infinite copies of Jill Moss. And every new thought, every emotion and decision of every person in the world created a new universe with billions of people thinking and feeling and deciding things every second that created more and more universes; infinite, never ending, spreading outward and outward over and over and over again…

It made his brain hurt just to think about it.

A metallic clang, as of someone falling over a metal folding chair, issued from the back room, causing both Markhams to turn in that direction. They gave each other surprised looks as they hurried to the back of the shop, followed closely by Jill.

As they all crowded in through the narrow doorway like the Three Stooges, Markham saw that the back room was much the same as his own, if quite a bit cleaner and more brightly lit. There appeared to be some subtle differences in the comics and manga, differences he would have liked to take a closer look at, but was distracted by the presence of-

"Bishop! Thank God!"

Markham barely restrained himself from throwing his arms around the younger man in relief, but settled for a punch as near to Bishop's shoulder as he could reach, instead. Bishop, he noticed, looked like crap. Ashen pale, with a sheen of sweat limning his face, bloodshot eyes and visibly trembling hands, he gripped the edge of the long table for support and gulped several deep breaths, as if willing himself not to throw up.

"Hey, Ed," he murmured, managing a nod in Markham's direction and looking like he regretted it immediately afterward. He caught sight of Eddie and did a double take. "Oh, man," he went on, half to himself. "Talk about surreal. This gives a whole new meaning to 'eddies in the space-time continuum'."

"A fellow Douglas Adams fan," Eddie Markham said, beaming approval. "I like him already."

"What're you guys doing back here?" Jill asked. "The party's out in front. Eddie, do you know these two?"

"Where the hell you been, Bishop?" Markham demanded, scowling, relief at seeing his friend again manifesting as anger. "And why'd you drag Emo Boy along with you?" he added, with a glance at Bishop's companion.

"This is Toby," said Bishop, pulling himself upright with some effort. "Our new best friend, who's going to get us back where we belong—isn't that right, Toby?" The kid with him looked in far worse shape, grey-faced and shaking all over as if from a fever. As Markham watched, his eyes crossed and he slid slowly down the wall to a sitting position. He covered his face with his hands and let out a long, shaky sigh.

"I never said I was going to help you." His voice emerged in a ragged whisper. "You dragged me here. At gunpoint. What's to stop me from just going back home and leaving you here?"

"Because," said Peter Bishop, "you're dying."


End file.
